


Man in Uniform

by bactaqueen



Category: Captain America (Comics)
Genre: F/M, shameless abh, sickeningly self-indulgent, uniform fetishization, willful ignorance of canon in favor of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:43:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Secret Avengers Steve’s new uniform is indecent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man in Uniform

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. No profit is earned and no infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Note: Have you seen [this](http://daunt.tumblr.com/post/6499262946/steve-rogers-nsfw-just-a-little-beach) piece of fanart? Yeah. That.

You'd seen the sketches and even one of the prototypes. On the rack, of course, because right now, you're pretty sure that if you'd seen even that prototype actually on him, it wouldn't have survived long enough to get back to...whoever is responsible for modifications. 

He's standing in front the room's full-length mirror, fiddling with one of the gloves, tugging it down and tightening it. That uniform... You thought the original was bad, those tights and that armor up top and that expanse of red and white in the middle that really just made him look more edible than a Bomb Pop on a hot summer day. This one is worse. So much worse. At least the other pretended to be clothing. This one, you're pretty sure, was painted on. From neck to where the pants disappear into the tops of those heavy mean-looking boots, it clings to every curve, every dip, every plane of every muscle. From where you're standing, you've got an excellent, unobstructed view of his back--of those broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist, and of the trim curve of his ass, the lines broken only by the pockets and pouches of the belt and the loops draped over his thighs that might belong to weapons holsters. It would be enough--mouth-wateringly more than enough--except for the mirror. And the mirror lets you see the front, too.

"Oh my God, you're not going to wear that in public, are you?"

He looks up, smiling that bland pleased smile he always gives when he's happy to see you but not for any reason in particular. His eyes are very blue, his hair is very blond, and the person responsible for the lighting in this room needs to be given a medal and pleasured orally.

"Hi. What do you think?"

"I  _can't_."

He frowns. His hands drop and he turns to you. "What's wrong?"

"That's  _indecent_ , Steve."

He twists to check his reflection. He shrugs, glancing back at you. "I know it's kind of snug--"

"Can you even get out of that thing alone?"

He frowns, brows furrowing. "Yes? It wouldn't be practical if I couldn't."

" _Practical_." There's nothing  _practical_  about that uniform, not that you can see. Admittedly, you're not seeing clearly, what with all the shaking from lust you're doing.

"Is there something wrong?" Ever polite, Captain Rogers is.

Or is it Commander Rogers now?

Does it matter?

You start across the room on knees that weaken more the closer you get to him. It's a good thing he's such a big damn hero, because you're pretty sure you're going to need him to catch you.

"Yes," you finally tell him.

He looks immediately concerned. "What is it?"

"That uniform."

He scowls. He actually scowls and even that is obscenely pretty on his face. "If you don't like it--"

"No, no. I didn't say I don't like it. I said it's  _wrong_. I said it's  _indecent_." You're standing in front of him now, close enough to touch, and you feel like someone has laid a buffet with your favorite foods. You lick your lips.

Understanding dawns in his eyes. His frown becomes a distinctly Steve smirk. "That bad?"

You bite your lip. "No one in your new super secret boy band is going to listen to you, you know that, right? They're all going to be too busy staring at your ass."

"Maybe that's part of my leadership strategy."

It takes you half a second to realize he's kidding. "You--" 

"We shouldn't have a problem with morale," he goes on, and his hands come to rest on your hips.

"I cannot  _believe_  you."

"I didn't think you'd react quite like this," he admits.

"But you  _knew_."

"I had a suspicion. Everyone got pretty quiet when I came out of the dressing room during the final fitting."

"You're a jerk." His fingers dug into your hips and his nearness puts your brain on a time delay. "Wait. Who was in the room?"

He smiles down at you. "You don't really want to talk about work, do you?"

"I want to rub myself against every inch of your body."

He cocks an eyebrow. "That's creative."

"It's the suit." You poke at his shoulder, which of course doesn't yield at all beneath your touch.

"Yes, I know how you feel about men in uniform."

You're about to protest--what has gotten  _into_  him, anyway--but he slides his hands up to grip your waist and lifts you off the floor. You're almost ashamed of the surprised yelp, but since instinct has you wrapping your legs around his middle and your hands around the leather shoulder straps and, well, whatever. You don't care what's gotten into him, not when he walks you to the bed and collapses both of you onto it. He stretches out over you and grinds his hips against yours.

You drop your head back, shutting your eyes. "I don't even care that your dirty boots are on the bed."

"They're not dirty. They're new. I haven't even worn them outside yet." He drags his parted lips up the side of your neck and licks the shell of your ear, and then he's pushing off of you and flopping to his back beside you.

You whimper. "What...?"

He gestures down at himself. "Go for it."

"What?"

He smirks.

Understanding dawns on you. You scramble up. In the next heartbeat you're on hands and knees over him and he's smiling up at you. He fists one hand in your hair to pull you in for a brief kiss.

"Are you serious?"

"The suit needs to be checked for vulnerabilities." He rubs the back of your head with his fingertips. He grins, small and quick. "You can do that, right?"

You groan and press your face to his neck. "Steve, stop teasing me. I don't know what's gotten into you but I'm not sure I can handle this."

"I'm not teasing you." He tugs you up for another kiss, deep and hard. "You told me what you wanted and I'm telling you that you can have it. I  _thought_  I was being a good boyfriend."

You close your eyes and rest your forehead against his. "You're not going to make fun of me?"

"Do I ever?"

"More often than I think I realize," you mumble, and kiss him again. He's warm and his lips are soft and just a little bit chapped and his tongue is there to meet yours. You whimper into his mouth and pull away. "I don't even care anymore." You push yourself up.

In short order, you've stripped off your dress and tossed it aside and wriggled out of your bra. Before you manage to drop it, his hands are there, cupping your breasts, the palms of the fingerless shooting gloves cool against your nipples. You close your eyes because you don't want to see that reverence on his face. You grind down against him, and...

You open your eyes and glare accusingly. "What is  _that_?"

"What do you think it is?" He squeezes your breasts gently.

"Not what I think it is!" You wiggle back on his thighs, forcing him to release you, and poke at the bulge under his belt that is definitely  _not_  the bulge it should be. " _Steve_." And you're embarrassed by the whine in your voice. Or you would be embarrassed if you didn't feel helpless and a little bit crazy.

He just gives you a level look. "It's part of the suit. I can't go down just because some Doombot kicks me in the--"

"It had better be removable," you interrupt. "As in,  _you'd better remove it_. Right now."

"Do you know how much trouble it is to put back in?" His blue eyes flash, amused. He's just messing with you now.

You point to your naked boobs. "I'm sorry, do I look like I care about making your life easier right now?"

He laughs. "Good point. All right." He opens the belt.

You hold your breath and watch as he unseals a previously invisible seam in the suit and sticks his hand down the front. He's watching you and you don't even care that he catches you wetting your lips and then biting them while he does... whatever it is he does to remove the downright normal-looking athletic cup. He tosses it aside and settles back, hands on the bed at his sides.

You glance at his face. "Um." You gesture. "Fix it."

"Fix what?"

" _Steve_."

Laughing at you, he seals the suit and buckles the belt. "There. Better?"

"Yes." You lean forward until you can press your body to his, then shift and wriggle until you can lock your thighs around one of his. His chest his broad and flat under your breasts, the material of the suit thin-feeling and slick against your skin. He's hard and warm everywhere, and when you press your face to his neck again and suck--lightly, knowing it won't do you any good to leave any marks--he sighs and slides his hands across your back. His fingertips are warm, the pads of them roughened from fights and shooting, and the gloves are still cool. He tips his head, baring his neck to you, and while you're kissing and licking his throat, even teasing your tongue along the tight edge of the neck of the uniform, you're writhing your hips.

Without that cup, you can feel the heat of his cock through the uniform, against your thigh. This commander getup is ridiculous; you can't see how it's going to protect him in the field at all. And then you're digging your fingers into his upper arms and rubbing your face across his chest and grinding your cunt against his thigh and, really, his survival against whatever forces of evil it is he goes out and fights is pretty much the last thing on your mind.

He's warm and warmer, or maybe you're just heating up. Your skin is certainly pricking, more sensitive by the second, so sensitive in fact that when he runs his hands from your shoulders to your ass, you moan against his chest. Your lips are parted; kissing him through the uniform is a strange experience and maybe later, you'll look back on this moment with embarrassment, but as you work your way down his chest and find his pebbled nipple, it just seems to make sense to close your lips around it and suck. You taste cotton and plastic, and the uniform must be made of something breathable, because you even think you taste him.

Or possibly that's just the scent of him, stronger as the air between you heats up.

He pushes his hands down the back of your panties and his big hands span each asscheek. Which he kneads, of course, his fingers sneaking ever inward and down. You don't care. He can touch you wherever he wants as long as he doesn't make you stop grinding your pussy against his thigh or make you stop rubbing your face against his chest like some kind of cat, or licking and biting his nipples through the uniform.

"Steve..."

His breathing stutters. His fingers slip lower, the bare tips teasing the soft thin skin just behind your cunt. You whimper and press your face to his chest, nails digging into his biceps so hard that if it weren't for the super healing, you bet you'd leave bruises. His thigh between yours is hard, and he flexes it, making you moan. You grind down hard, feeling his erection against your own thigh, and this is worse than being a horny teenager and so much better. You could reach down, open that invisible seam, free him. You know how he'd feel in your hand, long and thick and hard and so hot, and how he'd feel sliding into you, impossibly large, stretching you, filling you almost to the point of pain.

You could, but you don't need to, because you're muffling a long moan against his stomach, body bowed, hips working. You're humping his thigh, faster now, and the big wide pressure of him, the unyielding hardness of his thigh is so perfect. You forget to breathe. Your lungs burn and everything goes tight and there it is, that huge rush of relief that starts in your empty cunt and works out, little spasms in every single muscle of your body.

Spent and weak, you drape yourself over him. The belt digs into your stomach and his cock is hard, twitching, trapped against your thigh. You move a little, half-hearted.

He chuckles, chest vibrating under your cheek. "Feel better?"

"I need you to fuck me," you mumble into his chest.

"It sounds like you need a nap."

" _Steve_." You're whining and can't even muster the energy to be ashamed.

He still chuckling at you as he heaves you over and covers you. He wraps one hand around both of your wrists and pins them to the bed over your head, then feathers touches down your side, across your hip. He pushes your drenched panties to the side. He slips a finger into your slit, tweaks your clit with finger and thumb.

You groan and arch your back.

He dips his head to kiss your mouth, your cheek. Then his knuckles are scraping against you and he's opening the suit, and there's his cock, hard and hot, nudging right where you want him most.

"Ready?"

"Oh, Christ, just  _put it in_." You lock your legs around his and push your hips up.

He does. You're wet enough, there's no resistance, just the stretch of him, the incredible sense of fullness. You moan, long, too loud, but at least it's muffled against his shoulder. He spreads his knees wide, hips bumped against yours, grinding up into you. The scratch of his pubic hair against your clit, the slick feel of the uniform and the ridges of the seams between the red and blue along his legs, the crush of his body over yours--you're coming again before he even starts moving.

He gasps against your ear. "Oh..."

" _Move_." You push up against the hand holding you down but can't, the angle's all wrong and he's too strong, anyway. You whimper. "Steve, please, please..."

"You don't have to beg." He covers your mouth with his, a bruising kiss. Lifts his hips. He slides out of you, leaving you achingly empty, and it's everything you can do not to writhe under him.

His hips snap and he slams in and not-writhing is a thing you can no longer maintain.

He fucks you hard. Just hard. No finesse, just the slick slide of him deep, the wet withdrawal, the aching fullness and the aching emptiness. He fucks you, harder, faster, his knees in the bed, the bed shaking, and it hurts a little, with his fingers bruising your wrists and his cock too big, but, oh, your head is back and your throat is exposed, and he takes it for the invitation it is, leaving careful, gentle nips all down your neck, across your collarbones. He's holding back and you can feel it but you don't mind, because you're coming, clamping down hard around him, rocking your hips to meet his thrusts, and he slides in deep once, circles his hips, catches your clit and you're still shuddering, still shattered, when you hear his long, drawn-out groan and feel him convulse over you.

He doesn't stay on top of you or inside you nearly long enough, and when he rolls to his side, you follow, slinging a leg over his thighs and draping an arm across his stomach. You press your cheek to the side of his chest and listen to the pounding of his heart. He curves his arm around you and pins you close.

He sighs heavily. "This has to be washed now." 

"I will do it by hand," you mumble. You yawn, eyes already shut. "Later."

He laughs at you. He presses his lips to the top of your head and squeezes his arm around your shoulders. "Nap time?"

"You really are super, soldier."

"I  _knew_  you were only dating me for the uniform."


End file.
